Chapter 1 (Lucy)
Lucy slipped through the creaking subway doors just before they slid shut with a metallic swoosh and settled into an empty seat. Her movements were as silent as a shadow, too quiet for anyone to notice. She exhaled carefully, aware that her presence had gone unnoticed and praying it would stay that way. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head gently against the window, her body sinking into the semi-soft seat just enough to ease the tension in her tightly wound muscles. It had been days since she'd felt the release that only deep sleep could bring to her conscious and subconscious mind, both stretched to their limits.
What is happening to me? she wondered. The thought that something wasn't right—that she wasn't living her own life—had pierced her mental haze that morning. Her clouded thoughts had barely made room for it as she stood at the counter of a local coffee shop, trying to order a matcha latte with soy milk. She hated matcha; it tasted like lawn clippings soaked in water. Why would I order this? she had thought, glancing down and realizing she was wearing someone else's clothes.
Lucy opened her eyes, snapping back to the present with no small amount of mental discomfort. A strange girl stared back at her from the subway car's window. Some part of her knew it was her own reflection, but she couldn't reconcile the strangeness of the image with herself. The woman in the glass wore pink overalls with embroidered flowers around the pockets, a blue tie, an army jacket, and Christmas tree earrings that were turning her ears red from cheap metal irritation. She looked down at the chunky, steel-toed boots on her feet—too big, men's shoes—and then back at the strange girl in the window. She watched her reflection in a daze, as if waiting for this "other" to move, when a flicker in her peripheral vision made her flinch. An elderly woman, seated farther down the subway car, was staring at Lucy and began scooting conspicuously toward the empty seat beside her.
"Darling?" the woman said, her voice warm, as if they'd been friends for years. She placed a hand on Lucy's shoulder and looked into her eyes. Lucy flinched but couldn't look away. "You seem like a good kid. You know, I had a girl once who looked nothing like you, but I have a feeling you would've gotten along…" The woman rambled, and Lucy's body tensed in response to the chatter, the hand on her shoulder, and something else—a power welling up from deep within her, spilling out hungrily toward the old woman, unbidden and uninvited. The woman's voice grew distant, and Lucy's mind filled with a familiar fog.
"Here you go, darlin'," a voice said, startling Lucy out of her stupor. It was the old woman from the subway, but they were no longer on the train. Lucy was now seated at an old Formica table in a small kitchen with peeling wallpaper and yellow paint. She had no memory of how she'd gotten there, only a dim recollection of the woman before her.
"Sugar?" the woman asked, offering a chipped porcelain sugar bowl heaped with brown, crystallized cubes. Lucy smiled weakly and took three cubes, dropping them into her cup of what looked like weak tea, barely darker than dirty dishwater.
"Milk?" the woman asked. Lucy shook her head, but something in the woman's eyes made her change her mind. She nodded, letting the woman splash some into her tea. The milk was so thin it looked like water.
A thought burst through Lucy's mental haze, vivid and urgent, as if it were her own. This poor woman is watering down her milk to make it last longer. Lucy could see it like a movie in her mind: the old woman in the dairy aisle, counting her money, tallying her meager groceries, and sighing before slipping into grim resolve. You did what you had to do, and that was that. Watering the milk would stretch it to eight days instead of four days of full-fat milk followed by four days of none. Social Security just wasn't enough to live on.
Lucy felt as though she'd slipped into the woman's life like a jacket, and now she desperately wanted to shrug it off. The woman grabbed her arm suddenly, speaking with an almost desperate possessiveness. Lucy tore her gaze from the peeling paint and met the woman's tired eyes. She hated making eye contact—that she remembered about herself. No matter how hard she resisted, she couldn't avoid locking in, and once she did, it was nearly impossible to look away.
"My neighbor, you know, young gal, maybe twenty-eight or so, she's made some bad choices in love, let me tell you. I hear her husband screaming through these paper-thin walls every evening. He comes home from work and starts in on that poor gal, doesn't stop till he passes out. I've half a mind to knock on that door when it's so loud I can't sleep and tell that man what I think. That poor girl…"
The woman's voice faded to an echo, as if calling from the bottom of a deep well. Lucy felt herself slipping into a waking nightmare, aware she was trapped but unable to move. A vivid scene unfolded in her mind, clearer and more real than the kitchen she'd just left. She was in the neighbor's apartment—the one the old woman had mentioned—watching a scene play out. The woman was short, with messy curls and freckles; her husband was tall and muscular. He screamed at her, his face red, spittle flying as he waved his arms around the messy apartment. The woman said nothing, her shoulders drooping in self-deprecating silence. Then, as he turned away, a look of fury crossed her face. With a possessed jerk, she grabbed a purple lamp from beside the couch and slammed it into the back of his head.
The old woman's voice echoed again, pulling Lucy back to the kitchen with the yellow paint and unkempt walls. "I said, are you alright, darlin'?" the woman asked, her face inches from Lucy's.
"P-power," Lucy mumbled, the word tasting dusty, like an old book forgotten in the attic of her disorganized mind.
"What was that, dear?" the woman said, leaning closer.
"N-nothing," Lucy managed, shaking her head to clear the fog. Dizziness swept over her, and she pressed her fingertips to her temples, hoping to ease the tension the unwelcome vision had brought.
"I'm fine," she said after a moment. "It's just a headache."
"You look a bit pale, sweetie. How 'bout you come lie down on my couch and rest a bit?"
Lucy glanced where the woman gestured, to a small yellow couch in the attached room, seemingly chosen to match the ugly paint.
"It's small, but it's mighty comfortable," the woman said encouragingly.
Lucy nodded weakly, her headache intensifying. She staggered to the couch and collapsed, a sudden weariness pinning her in place. The woman draped a blanket over her, and the rhythm of Lucy's pounding head lulled her into a dark, dreamless sleep.
Lucy awoke with a start, bolting upright on the couch and knocking the blanket from her shoulders in a panic of amnesia. Where am I? Tenderly, she rubbed her head, feeling the tension ebb slightly. She felt better—worn out, but pulled back from some unknown brink. Her mind was clearer than it had been in days, yet she still didn't know where she was or how she'd gotten there. The room was old and shabby, clearly belonging to someone with little time or money. She glanced at the kitchen and saw the teacup on the table, the weak tea still inside. Slowly, her memory pieced itself together, fragmented and confusing. She recalled meeting the old woman on the subway but not coming home with her. She remembered holding the teacup, listening to the woman talk, and lying on the couch, but not why she'd come here or why she hadn't left.
A loud knock at the door jolted Lucy from her thoughts. From deeper in the house came shuffling feet and the old woman's voice hollering, "Coming!" down the hallway. She appeared moments later, opening the front door without noticing Lucy sitting up on the couch.
"Excuse me, ma'am," a dark-skinned police officer said in a husky voice. "I'm sorry to bother you, but we've had an incident at one of your neighbors'. I need to ask if you might've heard anything unusual tonight."
"Oh, Lord, who was it?" the old woman asked anxiously.
"Your neighbors to the right, ma'am. A…" The officer glanced at a notepad. "Mr. and Mrs. Therman. Looks like Mr. Therman was attacked, and Mrs. Therman appears to be missing. Anything you can tell us would be helpful. Did you know them?"
The old woman put a hand to her mouth in shock, then nodded slowly. "I know Mrs. Therman, alright. We chat sometimes at the mailbox—timid thing, though. Can't say I know Mr. Therman, other than hearing his voice through the walls. He hollered at his missus a lot. Is he alright?"
The officer pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, ma'am, he's not. We found his body not long ago. Looks like someone attacked him from behind."
Lucy felt the blood drain from her face. Images flashed in her mind—the woman grabbing the purple lamp and smashing it over her husband's head. Her stomach churned, and she pressed a hand to her mouth as the voices drifted from the front door.
"He's dead!?" the old woman gasped.
"Yes, ma'am, he is, and the Mrs. is nowhere to be found. When was the last time you saw her?"
The officer's voice faded as another vision flooded Lucy's mind. The short woman with freckles, blood on her hands, carried the broken lamp down an alley. She tossed it into a dumpster and fled.
"Are you alright, miss?" The officer's voice broke through, pulling Lucy back. She looked at him through bleary eyes, barely registering his concern.
"I have a headache," she said quietly.
"Do you know anything about Mr. and Mrs. Therman?" he asked. Lucy swallowed hard, dizziness washing over her. She made the mistake of meeting his eyes, and a wave of curiosity and an intense need for truth swept through her. She wanted to spill everything she'd seen, even if he'd think she was crazy.
"I…" she began, but the old woman interrupted.
"Actually, officer, I got some of Mrs. Therman's mail yesterday. Been meaning to bring it over. Didn't open it, of course—know that's illegal—but I noticed one was from a law office. Follow me, I'll get it for you."
The woman shuffled off without waiting for a reply. The officer glanced at Lucy. "Don't go anywhere, miss. I'd like to talk to you more."
Lucy watched him disappear down the hall, then stood quickly, letting the blanket fall. What was I thinking? She couldn't tell him she'd seen something without being there. She had to leave—now. The door was still open, and she didn't hesitate. Silently, she crossed the room and slipped into the dimly lit apartment hallway, an outdoor corridor near an exterior stairwell. She heard policemen talking at another apartment's open door and hurried in the opposite direction, away from the voices and flashing police lights, into the night.
It was dark, and the air was cold. Lucy moved quickly into the shadows, avoiding streetlights. She didn't know the time or even the day, but she knew she had to get farther away. With each step, the old woman's kind face tugged at her heart. An intense need to return, to ensure the woman was okay, nearly overwhelmed her. Suppressing the urge, she forced herself to keep walking.
Lucy didn't recognize the neighborhood but pressed on, feeling an invisible tug of magic with each step. It was as if a taut string tightened with every move, weighing her down. Without knowing why, she steered toward a small bridge over a rushing stream. Willing herself not to stop, she crossed it. The moment she reached the other side, it was as if a stretched rubber band snapped. The invisible tether linking her to the old woman broke, and Lucy was free. She fell to her knees, weeping. Sweat poured down her back, her body shaking as if with fever. The woman's thoughts, feelings, and desires left Lucy's mind, and her own sense of self struggled to reorient.
"Are you alright?" a male voice asked from the shadow of a nearby tree. Lucy tried to look but turning her head made the world spin. She closed her eyes, breathing heavily, fighting the sour churn in her stomach.
"Hey, you okay?" The voice was closer now, its owner kneeling beside her. Cautiously, she opened her eyes and met those of a young man, his hand resting gently but firmly on her shoulder. His concern coursed through her, followed by attraction, confusion, and mild annoyance. Lucy felt tugged by his emotions—a desire to ease his worry, satisfy his attraction, clear his confusion, and not be a burden. A thread formed between them, unbidden, pulsing red and blue in her mind. Unlike the tether to the old woman, which she'd only felt break, this one she could see knitting together, its emotions clear. The bond eased her nausea and shaking, and Lucy sighed in relief just as the fog and confusion returned.